The window was open and that damn raven was sitting on the branch of a mountain ash right outside the window, looking as if he had been carved from a single piece of the darkest obsidian. Liam didn’t really know anything about obsidian except that it was a rock of some kind that was black and shiny, but he liked the sound of the word and it was what that black bastard looked like he was made of, from his enormous curved beak to his black beady eyes to his fat black tailfeathers. Although he didn’t look so black this close up, more a mixture of green and blue and dark brown. Sort of like snow and how it wasn’t really white.
Larsgaard followed his glance. “Raven,” he said. “My favorite bird.”
“Really?” Liam gave the raven an unfriendly glance. “Why?”
“If they’re so smart, why don’t they fly south for the winter?”
“And they’re loyal.”
Liam raised his brows. “Loyal?”
“Sure.” Larsgaard gestured with his mug. “When one of them finds something to eat, say a moose or a caribou or a bear, anything, they wait and watch it, sometimes hours, sometimes even days to make sure it’s dead, and then they call in their friends and relatives for a feast. They’re like wolves with wings.”
Excerpt from the second Liam Campbell novel, So Sure of Death. I’m working on the fifth book in the series now.
Author and founder of Storyknife.org.